In the bosom of the desert

In the bosom of the desert

I will lie at the last.

Not the grey desert of sand

But the golden desert of great wild grasses,

This shall receive my soul.

In the high plateaus,

The wind will be like a flute's note calling me

Day after day.

Short bursts of surf,

The wind climbs up and stops in the grass;

And the golden petals

Brush drowsily over my face.